


Cycles

by TiredRazzberry



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adultery, Ancient Rome, Gen, Golden Age Hollywood, Modern Era, Murder, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reincarnation, Sugar Daddy, Unequal relationships, the 80s, the Oregon Trail, witch burnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:50:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredRazzberry/pseuds/TiredRazzberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two souls meet and do not meet and kind-of meet nine times throughout history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cycles

The first time around, he calls you beautiful. He compares you to roses, lilacs, and lilies daily. He showers you in green jasper jewelry and silks from Asia Minor. He keeps you in a grand villa overlooking the Sea of Adria, and he gifts you with a small legion of slaves for its upkeep as well as yours. When the jealous spit their venom, calling you an upstart, he takes you into his arms and whispers, “Fear not. We have Venus’ blessing.”

His wife finds you because you have the wrong slave whipped. Then you die.  

The second time around, he calls you ugly. He mutters it under his breath every time you pass his bloody stall in the marketplace. “Hag.” He taunts you when you dare to turn around and fix him with a glare. “Witch!” He later screams in unison with the mob. You beg for mercy and swear to your own innocence, but you cannot be heard over the screaming crowd or the roaring fire. Would they care if they heard? Tears spill from your stinging eyes. He tosses a cat onto the pyre with you and you toss a curse right back. Then it is his turn to beg.

The third time around, he’s old and grizzled and it’s your turn to point and jeer. “Ugly demon!” You shout from your father’s shoulders. You can see everything from your perch. He looks even uglier when he screams, you say to your brother who is left on the ground because he's too big for Father to carry anymore. Your mother pulls you away from the town square when you start choking on smoke.

You cry for days afterwards. The stench is just that awful.

The fourth time around, the two of you often meet around a fire. A little one surrounded by rocks that you both keep getting tricked into collecting as part of a game. You bond over a shared hatred for the nightly ritual imposed upon you. You would both much rather nestle under a dozen Indian blankets than sit around a fire and cough all night.

When you reach the “promising new frontier” your parents raved about like the Second Coming—Christ’s, not yours—she finally keels over beside you. You blame the campfire for your little sister’s death. Without it, you might have noticed her deadly cough sooner.

The fifth and sixth times around are both short-lived. Neither time do you see the world beyond your nursery or the garden below your windowsill. Both times he loves you fiercely, packing years of love into mere months. He rocks you, plays with you, and speaks to you; more so the sixth time than the fifth. He speaks of fifth you to sixth you with so much affection that you frequently cry and leave him so helpless that he is forced to relinquish you to your deadly nurse.

The seventh time around, you see him only on giant, silver screens and posters. His face is as pretty this time as it was ugly the third time, but his smiles are more fabricated than your clothes, and unabashedly so. You roll your eyes at your sisters for being so enamored with such a manufactured star. “Like Monroe is any different!” Your littlest sister throws back one day.

The eighth time around, you're the one fresh off the Tinseltown assembly line. A poster of you in a fur bikini ends up ripped off her elder brother’s wall and tucked between her mattresses. Both her brothers end up grounded over it: the elder one for seeking vengeance against the younger one, and the younger one for refusing to give the poster back. She felt like she had gotten away with pilfering the _Mona Lisa_. Or so her fan letter said. You only skimmed it, to be honest.

The ninth time around, you meet him through an app. The two of you go on three “dates”. Then you promise to call him later and never do. You endure a week of shrill electronic ringing before your phone falls silent. “He’s a Republican.” You tell your frat brothers when they ask, because you would rather not explain that the idea of dating a married man, even a filthy rich one, terrified you for some reason.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be much appreciated! And I am welcome to answer any questions about this piece as well.


End file.
